


on the workings of the universe

by asofthaven



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Memories, Non-Linear Narrative, Pining, Slow Burn, lots of musings about remembering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-22 11:13:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13165752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asofthaven/pseuds/asofthaven
Summary: A cataloguing of Chikara's life, in snapshots.





	on the workings of the universe

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to the lovely lark for beta-ing this!

v.  
By fifteen, Chikara has the art of shrinking perfected—shrinking into corners, shrinking from sight, shrinking aspirations into something he can hold in his palm and hide behind his back.

Ambition is something he pushes aside at the entrance of the gym on his first day of high school practice. He doesn’t expect to stand out because he never has before—he’s good, but not that good; tall, but not that tall.

Mediocre, but he pushes that thought aside, too. In the end, volleyball is just muscle memory, the same way a name lies on the tongue or feet walk a familiar path. Chikara lives in stability, and extraordinary isn’t a thing he’s aiming for.

From the edges of the gym, Chikara strikes up a conversation with a fellow first year named Narita, and doesn’t wonder about the noise at the center of the court.

 

i.  
There’s a boy on the playground who’s always crying. Not always—mostly always crying. Chikara has one younger brother and an echo of his mom’s voice in the back of his head, so he goes over to check on him.

“Are you okay?” he asks, crouching next to the boy. “Do you want me to get the teacher?”

It’s what his mom has taught him to do, when things are going poorly—find an adult, ask for help.

The boy has big eyes. Chikara thinks they’d be nicer if they weren’t so teary. The boy shakes his head and points, wordless, to a beetle in the grass in front of him.

Chikara scrunches his nose; not at the boy, but at the bug. “Are you afraid of it?”

The boy nods vigorously, unable to meet Chikara’s eyes. Chikara thinks the boy may be afraid of him, too. He leans forward, until he’s the only thing in the boy’s line of sight.

Big, watery eyes blink at him. Chikara smiles.

“It’ll be okay,” he says.

Chikara crawls forward and cups the beetle in his palm before getting up. Its wings beat against his palms, an irritated buzz that startles Chikara into opening his palms.  
The beetle zig zags through the air briefly, then disappears into the bushes beyond the playground.

“It’s gone,” Chikara announces, in case the boy isn’t looking. But the boy is looking, is staring off towards where the beetle flew off and sniffling.

“It’s gone,” the boy echoes. On the other side of the playground, the teacher is calling for them to gather and line up so they can head back inside.

This time, when Chikara extends his hand, the boy takes it.

 

vi.  
At break, Chikara looks down to pick up a water bottle and when he straightens up, Nishinoya is there, staring right back at him. Chikara is taken aback by how much shorter Nishinoya is than him.

“Hey,” Nishinoya says. His hands are on his hips, more confidence in that single stance than Chikara’s had most of his life. “You’re Chikara, right?”

The use of his first name is enough to surprise Chikara, but it’s the ease with which Nishinoya says his name that really make Chikara speechless. He is certain, suddenly, that Nishinoya will never call him anything else.

“Ennoshita Chikara,” Chikara says politely. It makes him uncomfortable to hear his first name from someone he’s just met. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Nishinoya’s smile makes him look younger. “I’m Nishinoya Yuu, but you can call me Noya.”

“Oh,” Chikara says after a moment. He doesn’t call Nishinoya _Noya_.

And then break is over, and that’s it; the totality of their meeting is as eventful as paint drying, and Chikara doesn’t think about it further than that. In the same way asteroids are unconcerned with the flight path of planets, Chikara is sure Nishinoya will be unconcerned with him.

 

iv.  
Chikara has foggy memories of childhood—the constant moving, the repetitiveness of introducing himself to a new class, the time it took to orient himself in a new place. He remembers Miyagi, though, when his family returns at the end of his middle school years. It’s comforting, to return to somewhere he’d already been.

His mom has a photo in one of her albums of Chikara, dressed in a yellow hat and jacket, in front of his elementary school. He’s grinning, and in the background, there are blurs of other yellow-clad children attached to the legs of parents and grandparents.

In neat handwriting, Chikara’s mom had included a date and the words _Chikara’s first day_ on the back. It would be nice if he’d brought the picture with him when he visits the elementary school. For comparison’s sake. Was the school always so small, or the walkway always so cracked?

His mom has always sworn that Chikara was the bravest kid in the class on the first day. Chikara doesn’t know about that, certainly doesn’t think that was true when he was in elementary school.

He does remember the kid who cried through the first half of the day, stumbling over his name so much so that Chikara was sure nobody understood it. Chikara, having already moved three times at that point, had gotten used to the stares of strangers and had no trouble getting his own name out.

Takeshi will be going here now. Another Ennoshita, another uniform, but all in the same school, for once. It’s weird, given that none of them have shared a school, had never anticipated it as a possibility.

With an exhale, Chikara decides that he’s probably loitered around the school long enough. He turns, retraces his footsteps to go back home.

 

viii.  
Inside the corner store, Kinoshita, Tanaka, and Narita are scraping together money for meat buns. Nishinoya and Chikara wait for them outside the store, their purchases hanging in plastic bags at their side. Summer is warring for dominance over spring, leaving the concrete too hot and the wind too cold as the streetlamps begin to light up. It’s been too few weeks for familiarity, but Nishinoya is leaning into Chikara’s side like they’ve known each other for years, for lifetimes.

Chikara toes at the loose gravel under his shoe and asks, “Why do you use our given names?”

It’s one of those curiosities that Chikara finds himself thinking about too often; Nishinoya doesn’t refer to everyone as their given name, and so there must be some sort of logic, even if it’s elusive to Chikara.

“Chikara’s a good name,” Nishinoya says. He’s tearing off the wrapper of his popsicle, his spikes drooping from the mugginess of the night.

“Yeah,” Chikara says after a moment, when it becomes clear that there is no explanation beyond that. “Thanks.”

He sees no point in arguing, but his mind does it anyways, says: _it doesn’t really fit, does it? Doesn’t_ Chikara _make you think of unyielding, of force like an oak tree or steel rods—something that doesn’t give under pressure?_

Says: _you never quite fit your name—not enough nerve and too many doubts, and nothing outstanding to make up for either._

“Chikara,” Nishinoya says, snapping the world back into focus. Chikara sits on Nishinoya’s tongue like a question he already knows the answer to.

“Yes?”

For whatever reason, Nishinoya grins. Chikara is quickly learning that there’s nothing that can’t prompt a grin out of Nishinoya. “How come you never call me Noya?”

Chikara grimaces. “I don’t know you well enough for that.”

“Sure you do,” Nishinoya says, biting— _biting_ —into his popsicle. Chikara’s grimace grows. “What more d’you need to know?”

 

ix.  
Slowly, surely, expectations fill like wet cotton in Chikara’s chest. Every missed receive, every extra lap, every bead of sweat rolling discontentedly down his chin is a layer of suffocation against his throat.

It’s been three days since he was last at practice. Chikara is uncomfortably aware of the eyes at the back of his neck.

“Ennoshita-kun,” one of the girls in his class says in a weary voice. She doesn’t have to say anything else; Chikara stands, smiling at her apologetically.

Tanaka and Nishinoya are crouched by the door to his classroom, having a whispered argument and somehow still managing to be the loudest people in the hallway.

“Don’t you two have lunch to eat?” Chikara asks. His heart beats nervously; he’s quickly running out of reasons for missing practice, and the truth of it gnaws uncomfortably at his chest.

How is he supposed to explain that he’s tired? That he doesn’t have a reason beyond the desire to no longer be yelled at, to no longer force himself until his muscles burned painfully, to no longer have mediocrity rise like bile in his throat?

“Chikara, are you coming to practice today?” Nishinoya asks, springing to standing and then crossing the space between them with a single step.

Chikara leans back, frowning deeply. “I told you yesterday,” he says irritably. Chikara would rather not be approached by everyone in the club about his disappearance.

_I’m thinking of quitting_ leaves a bad taste in his mouth, but once he says the words, he can’t very well take them back.

“Ennoshita-san, you have to come back,” Tanaka says. Nishinoya nods furiously, arms crossed sagely against his chest.

“What do you even care for,” Chikara asks, under his breath. Nishinoya picks up on it anyways.

“It’s not the same without you,” Nishinoya says.

Tanaka mirrors him. “Everyone misses you.”

Chikara finds that improbable, but he doesn’t bother trying to correct them.

He shoos them off with another excuse, only to find both of them outside his classroom once school ends, like they’re ready to physically drag him to practice.

Chikara isn’t sure if he’s surprised or not when they actually try.

“Let go,” he shouts, voice sharp and a little bit desperate. They let go of him instantly, and Chikara pretends that he’s not feeling guilty when he straightens up.

He can see the beginnings of a protest in the way Nishinoya puffs up. Chikara gives him his best wilting glare. It works—something in Nishinoya’s jaw jumps, but he doesn’t say anything when Chikara says, with a lot of forced calm, “I’ll see you two later.”

No one stops him from walking away, but Chikara is sure that he can feel Nishinoya’s glare the entire way to the entrance gate.

 

ii.  
Chikara hates having to say goodbye. It doesn’t get better, no matter how many times they’ve moved.

In fact, it sucks even more this time. Chikara doesn’t cry, but that’s only because the other kids in his class are crying enough for him.

He keeps his gaze on his desk as the day continues. The grain on the wood makes new patterns the longer he stares, and he doesn’t even bother taking notes or anything. Everything is different when he moves, even the classes and what he’s supposed to know. So it doesn’t matter if he zones out a little bit on his last day.

As soon as the bell for lunch rings, Chikara is up and out of his chair. So far, he’s moved three times that he can remember, and each time, his classmates crowd around him. He doesn’t like it—it makes him feel like a goldfish in a bowl.

He’s found, anyways, tucked between the blacktop and the school, hidden by a tree that grew too close to the building and offered a small space between its roots. Chikara’s staring at the toes of his shoes, and then there are a second pair of small feet just outside the enclosure of roots.

When Chikara looks up, a juice box, squashed in one corner, is practically at his nose. Wide eyes, normally watery with tears, are staring back at him stubbornly.

“Thank you,” Chikara says, automatic, because that’s what you’re supposed to do when someone gives you something.

“Chikara,” Yuu says, and his voice is small enough to hide in the folds of his collar, so Chikara has to lean forward to hear the rest of the sentence, “we’ll meet again, yeah?”

Chikara knows that his family doesn’t move back to a place they’ve already moved away from. He knows that imploring others to stay in touch isn’t enough to make people stay in touch. Chikara knows a lot, about leaving and about adapting and about not crying when your parents say you’re moving again and most importantly, about never wishing for things that can’t change.

But still he says, “Yeah, I think so.”

 

x.i  
Takeshi, upon learning that both his older brothers attended his elementary school, immediately descended upon their mom’s photo albums. Chikara tries to ignore this for as long as is humanely possible.

“Chika-nii, you look like Shouto-nii here!” Takeshi slams the album down next to Chikara’s textbook, because that’s just what Takeshi does.

Chikara leans over, finds Takeshi pointing to a picture taken years ago, the first time they lived in Miyagi. Chikara would disagree about looking like Shouto—Shouto has always been more angular, even as a child—but he can understand Takeshi’s confusion. In the picture, Chikara is only a year or two younger than Shouto is now—maybe nine or ten. He’s smiling at someone or something off-camera, but even in the faded colors, Chikara can tell there are tears on his cheeks.

“That was right before we moved,” Chikara says, remembering. “It was my last day at school.”

He forgets about homework, for the moment, and reaches over Takeshi to grab the photo album.

“Moved from here?”

“Yup.” Chikara flips back a few pages, taps one of the shots of him in front of the school. “This is your school, when I was there.”

“Oh,” Takeshi says, like that’s legitimately interesting. Chikara pauses in the midst of turning the page, doesn’t catch the rest of his brother’s sentence.

“That’s the crying boy,” Chikara blurts out. Except the boy’s not crying here; he’s grinning, missing teeth, and Chikara’s grinning too. It’s not a great picture, blurred like they were moving, but recognition sounds firmly in Chikara’s head.

“You shouldn’t make fun of him,” Takeshi says, sounding so disappointed in him that Chikara feels bad.

“I don’t remember his name,” Chikara defends, “He did cry a lot.”

The sound of the front door unlocking has Chikara tilting his head back, automatically calling a greeting to his mom. She has groceries, or at least a number of bags, but Chikara shoves Takeshi in her direction instead of getting up himself. Takeshi kicks his shins and yells for Shouto to come over instead.

They share a grin when Shouto dutifully comes grumbling off the couch.

“Mom,” Chikara asks, leaning back and lifting the album, “Do you remember his name?”

His mom comes forward, tucking loose hairs behind her ears. She laughs when she sees what Chikara is holding up. “Oh, that was—”

 

xii.  
Warning signs are these, collected and archived over the course of a year:

An unanticipated flutter right at the edges of his gut whenever Nishinoya does something inconsequential and manages to make it significant;

A rush of blood to Chikara’s ears and cheeks when he catches himself staring a little too intently at Nishinoya’s profile;

An echo of Nishinoya’s laughter on the other side of the gym that pulls Chikara’s attention mindlessly in Nishinoya’s direction.

The cataloguing isn’t something Chikara ever thought he would miss until Nishinoya’d been banned from club for a month.

Chikara comes to the sinking realization that he’s maybe in deeper than he thought when he’s standing outside of Nishinoya’s classroom with a can of juice. He’s comforted by the reminder that he’d been bullied into talking to Nishinoya.

Admittedly, it didn’t take much for the others to convince him to come here.

Nishinoya comes to a dead halt when he notices Chikara, so Chikara takes it upon himself to start the conversation. He offers the juice. “Hey.”

It’s not often that he sees Nishinoya so obviously surprised, but it melts away quickly. Nishinoya grins and takes the juice.

“Hey,” he greets, and Chikara absolutely does not think about whether he missed Nishinoya’s voice, “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs. “Checking in?” It sounds too much like a question, so Chikara coughs before trying again. “The others are worried about you.”

He’s worried, too, but couching it in nebulous others feels like a much safer thing to say.

Nishinoya’s mouth opens like he’s about to say something, but then he abruptly closes it. His expression is stormy, and Chikara waits it out with his back pressed against the wall, cataloguing again.

“Mm,” Nishinoya says finally, “I’m fine.”

He says it in a way that is so decidedly not fine that Chikara frowns, debating on calling him out on it.

Chikara doesn’t know what happened, really. He heard the shouting, saw the broom, snapped unevenly in half. Heard about the hallway argument in its aftermath. None of it amounts to knowing how to deal with it.

Tanaka and the others have a bigger estimation of his skill than Chikara thinks is warranted; he doesn’t know what to say to make this better any more than they would.

“I think you’re lying,” Chikara says. He pats the empty stretch of wall next to him, and Nishinoya joins him. They’re in the middle of the hallway at lunchtime, so Chikara doesn’t see a reason to make a fuss of it. Obviously that hasn’t worked out well for Nishinoya before.

“We’re here for you, you know,” Chikara says.

Nishinoya’s jaw remains stubbornly set. “I know that.”

Chikara listens to snatches of conversation as people walking through the hallways before saying, “We miss you.”

What he wants to say is _I miss you_ , but Chikara’s never had that sort of bravery.

“I’ll be back,” Nishinoya says, and a tiny, selfish part of Chikara is disappointed at the response.

_Hopeful,_ Chikara’s exhales seems to say, even though he has no idea when he started feeling hopeful at all. _You were hopeful after all._

 

vii.  
Nishinoya is an unfamiliar element in the familiarity of volleyball. Chikara can’t possibly be the only person to notice this, and they’ve only just had their first practice.

He’s intimidated by Nishinoya’s presence on the other side of the net, even though this is just spiking practice and teammates are not something to be afraid of, generally speaking. So he runs, leaps, spikes—muscle memory.

Nishinoya shoots forward, his energy condensed into the press of his feet against the floor, in the muscles of his forearms as he gets under the ball and sends it soaring in a perfect, quiet arc.

Nishinoya’s eyes stay trained on the ball as it falls, like this is a real match and he expects the setter to toss it again, like he’s waiting for the rally to come back to his domain. When it lands—quiet, again, with a single small bounce before rolling away—Nishinoya catches Chikara’s gaze and grins, says, “Nice spike!” before dashing towards the next ball coming from the second setter.

_Wow,_ Chikara thinks, _wow,_ and tries to dislodge his heart from where it’s flown into his throat. He reminds himself to exhale.

“Whoa,” the setter on his side, the third year, says. There’s something disquieting and fascinating about seeing genius up close. “What did he say his name was, again?”

“Nishinoya,” Chikara answers with the growing, disconcerting feeling that he wouldn’t be forgetting it anytime soon.

“Oh, yeah,” the setter says with a snap of his fingers, “The one from Chidoriyama. No wonder.”

Chikara is suddenly, privately glad his old team never had to face them. There’s skill and then there’s _skill_ , and Chikara isn’t fanciful enough to think he would ever—will ever—stand a chance against that.

 

xiii.  
“I had a friend when I was younger,” Nishinoya is saying. He’s on his back, staring up at the sky. It’s too cold for this kind of lounging, but Nishinoya doesn’t care. Nishinoya has never cared. Chikara only hopes that his muscles don’t freeze up before their break is up. “That helped me a lot.”

Chikara zips up his jumpsuit jacket, looks sidelong at Nishinoya. “Like, when you were too short to reach stuff? Anyone could help you with that.”

“ _Chikara_.” Nishinoya reaches out blindly, lands a hit on Chikara’s shins for his efforts. “No, I mean about me being a scaredy-cat when I was younger.”

It’s a funny thought to wrap his head around—the idea that Nishinoya has ever been anything other than the force of nature he is now.

“Okay,” Chikara says, drawing the word out. Nishinoya’s gaze is still skyward, so Chikara copies him when he asks, “Why are you remembering them now?”

Nishinoya rolls onto his side. Chikara rests the side of his head on his knees to look at Nishinoya.

“I haven’t been afraid of things for a long time,” Nishinoya says. “But then I was, for a little bit, when people started leaving the club.”

It sounds like the answer to a question Chikara doesn’t remember asking. It’s not said to inspire guilt, but Chikara feels guilty all the same.

Chikara tears out grass. This isn’t about him and his inadequacies. “What did you have to be afraid of?”

Nishinoya blinks like he doesn’t understand the question. Chikara yanks out a long strand of grass and begins folding it as he thinks about what to say. “Even if we left,” he explains, focusing entirely on the tiny folds, “the team would still be a team.”

“It wouldn’t be this team,” Nishinoya says, insistent. It’s the exact sort of thing Nishinoya would get hung up about, and Chikara shakes his head, amused.

“Okay,” Chikara says, acquiescing. “What’s this have to do with your friend?”

“It just reminded me, is all,” Nishinoya says, frowning. “People leaving, I mean, reminded me of him.”

“He sure was important to you,” Chikara says, trying to be light.

“So are you,” Nishinoya says. And—and Chikara knows what Nishinoya means, knows that Nishinoya is his friend and that alone makes Chikara important to him. But anticipation still circles unhelpfully in his chest, like a dog or something equally starved and pleading.

Chikara stands and feigns a stretch in the hopes that Nishinoya hasn’t caught the way his cheeks feel, suddenly, as if they’ll give him away.

He wants to be extraordinary, if only in Nishinoya’s eyes. If only for a moment.

“Well, thanks,” he says lamely.

Nishinoya stands as well, not minding Chikara’s response. “Why’d you come back, then?”

It’s taken a surprisingly long time for Nishinoya to ask this question, and even then, it’s not the exact question Chikara had anticipated.

He takes a moment to weight his possible responses, says, ultimately, “Because I hated being away.”

Nishinoya hums; it’s impossible to tell if it’s because he approves or disapproves of the reason. Chikara has a feeling it doesn’t make much of a difference either way.

Nishinoya finally says, “We missed you.” And then he’s grinning, his hand slapping Chikara’s back. The heat of his hand lingers like a brand. “I’m glad you’re back.”

Chikara’s gaze drops to the ground. Unnecessary warmth vaults across Chikara’s chest. “So am I.”

 

x.ii  
“—Yuu,” his mom says. “You don’t recognize him?”

Chikara blinks a couple of times, then stares down at the page in front of him. “Oh,” he says, and sees it.

 

xiv.  
Chikara lingers in the clubroom well after his teammates have filed out, staring at his jersey like it’ll up and bite him. The fabric is deceptively light for such a heavy thing.

“You’re that worried about it?” Nishinoya asks.

Chikara jumps, dropping the jersey. He hadn’t noticed Nishinoya come in, but it shouldn’t surprise him, at this point.

He could joke about it— _I’m always worried_ —but it deflates before he can give it voice. Chikara stoops to pick up the jersey, running a finger absentmindedly over the number on the chest.

“You know the answer to that,” Chikara says instead. Nishinoya’s already dressed, a spark in his orange as usual. His arms are crossed, and his chin jutted out like they’re having an argument that he intends to win. Maybe they are. Maybe he already has.

“And _you_ know _my_ answer to that,” Nishinoya says, and, yeah, Chikara does. “What are you scared of, anyways?”

Chikara lets out a long sigh. He turns his attention to getting out of his school uniform so he doesn’t have to look at Nishinoya. “Lots of things.”

He knows Nishinoya’s stance on fear, not that it’s helpful in getting rid of Chikara’s own. But Chikara thinks he’s beginning to understand the core of it as reaching out your hands, or accepting another person’s outstretched palms.

“But I’ll be fine,” Chikara says, carefully folding his uniform before stuffing it back in his bag.

“Course you will,” Nishinoya says, his voice suddenly closer. Chikara shivers and immediately yanks his jersey top on, the ‘1’ flat against the beating of his chest. His cheeks feel like flares. God, he feels like an idiot. “Yanno why?”

“Because I have you?” Chikara asks, dry. He pulls his tracksuit on over his uniform, still feeling somewhat undone. “And the rest of the team?”

“Well, yeah,” Nishinoya says, but like it isn’t the answer he’s looking for. He spins Chikara around by the shoulders. He’s too close, and his chin is tilted up as he searches Chikara’s face, and Chikara is having a lot of thoughts unrelated to this conversation that he should probably reel in immediately. “But I was thinking more like you’ve got you, yanno?”

One of his hands drops to press at the number on Chikara’s chest, where he can probably feel the racing of Chikara’s heart.

“That only matters if I’m on the court,” Chikara says, half-joking. He already knows he’s not starting. He also knows he’ll be called, eventually, to ground the team.

“You know, you’d be an even better captain if you trusted yourself the way we do,” Nishinoya says.

“I’m not—is that a compliment?”

“I’m just saying,” Nishinoya continues, his palm pressing insistently into Chikara’s chest, “you’re also part of what makes this team great, Chikara.”

“I know that,” he says, and he does. Chikara presses his hand carefully against Nishinoya’s, smiling sheepishly. “But it does help to hear it from you.”

He should expect it, when Nishinoya’s free hand moves to tilt Chikara’s chin down and he braces his weight on Chikara’s chest. But he doesn’t, so Chikara’s surprised when Nishinoya kisses him.

“Good,” Nishinoya says when they break away. His grin is blinding, and his cheeks are pink, and Chikara can’t believe he ever thought he could hide anything from a boy like this.

Then Nishinoya’s tugging him out of the room, saying, “Now c’mon, we—”

“I know, I know,” Chikara says with a laugh. “We have a match to win.”

 

iii.  
Shouto is sitting on the floor of Chikara’s room, a pudding from the fridge his offering of a truce for skipping out on his share of the chores.

“Are you excited for high school?”

He’s staring at Chikara’s uniform, hanging on the back of his door, as he asks. Their mom made Chikara take dozens of photos with his uniform on, claiming the necessity of tradition as she squashed him and his brothers together, each in a different uniform and a different year. High school, first; middle, second; primary, third.

“I guess,” Chikara says, pulling the foil off the top of the pudding. “What about you?”

Shouto wrinkles his nose, evidently not liking the reminder. “I don’t want to start middle school.”

“You’ll be okay,” Chikara says, not unkindly. He says, around a spoonful of pudding, “At least you’ll stay in one place for it.”

“No more moving,” Shouto agrees, shifting slightly. He turns to stare at Chikara, asks, “Are you glad to be back?”

Chikara shrugs a shoulder. He likes being in one place, certainly. “I guess. Are you?”

Shouto mimics his movements; he was also in elementary school in Miyagi, also has fading memories of people and places. “I don’t remember enough from then to feel anything about being back. Is that bad?”

Chikara’s spoon scrapes the bottom of the pudding cup. “I don’t think so,” he says. “It probably doesn’t matter anyways.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s not like it would change anything, even if you did,” Chikara says. It’s something he’s been thinking about, running useless circles in his head as the entrance ceremony approaches. How likely is it that he’d meet kids from his elementary school? What would it matter, if he did?

 

xi.  
More and more Chikara finds himself just... letting things happen.

Little things, he reasons; insignificant things, like how his lunchtimes are semi-regularly invaded by Tanaka and Nishinoya or how this makes the third time that he’s reached for his club jacket only to find it in Nishinoya’s possession—this time hanging off his shoulders like a cape.

“Nishinoya,” Chikara says with an edge of exasperation. The first time this happened, Chikara wasted no time in snatching his jacket back. Now, he’s just wondering if it’s worth the effort.

Nishinoya dances out of Chikara’s reach, like he can remember that, too. “Okay, but,” he says with a shadow of a grin. Next to Nishinoya, Tanaka is half-dressed, his gakuran jacket tied like a superhero’s cape.

There’s a story there, Chikara is sure of it, but he doesn’t have the energy or patience to unravel it now. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, but turns away to get back into his uniform while Nishinoya and Tanaka resume... whatever the hell it is that they’re doing.

Chikara has gotten disturbingly good at tuning them out.

Narita points it out, a little curious, a little amused: “You’re not going to do anything about that?”

Chikara shrugs. “It could be worse,” he says, because it could be. Chikara figures he should save his energy for when Nishinoya and/or Tanaka do something that might impact their ability to play.

Besides, he’s certain he doesn’t have time for whatever might be happening in his chest when Nishinoya breezes past him, wearing Chikara’s jacket properly while Nishinoya searches for his own. The sleeves are too long, so Nishinoya’s pushed them past his elbows so that his forearms, thinly muscled and peppered with bruises, are showing. Chikara swallows, getting into his gakuran jacket.

He really doesn’t have the time for this, not with the aftermath of their losses at Inter-High still fresh in everyone’s mind. He could see it in the third-years—a weary resignation. Some of them would be staying. Most, it seemed, were leaving.

“Oi,” Tanaka calls, and Chikara realizes he’d been staring at the wall in front of him without seeing it. Quickly, he grabs his bag, slips into his shoes.

“Sorry,” he says, hurrying towards where Tanaka and the others are gathered.

Nishinoya hands him his jacket with a little smile, says, “You don’t have to apologize for everything, Chikara.”

“I’ll remember that,” Chikara answers dryly, even though he doesn’t think remembering will make any difference.

 

xv.  
“We went to elementary school together, you know,” Chikara says.

Nishinoya’s got a cheekful of meat buns in his mouth, so Chikara doesn’t understand the noise that comes out of his mouth. Chikara makes a face at him.

“Really?” Nishinoya repeats around the mouthful. “I don’t remember.”

“I don’t expect you to,” Chikara says. “Just felt like something I should mention.”

“Why’s that?” Nishinoya’s hand slips into Chikara’s sneakily. It’s dark, so Chikara doesn’t mind. He throws a look behind him, though, and only sees the dark shapes of their teammates behind them.

“Mm, feels circular? Or something.”

“Chikara, you gotta know I have no idea what you mean.”

Chikara huffs out a laugh. It’s a thought that’s been floating around in the back of his mind for a while now, formless and wriggling. Something about meetings as ripples you can’t track until the wave is already at the shore. About time, and the endless loop of it. Fate, or an equivalent that’s less heavy and more accidental.

Chikara thinks the world is much tinier and the universe more conspiring than it lets on.

“I just think it’s funny,” he says finally, letting their joined hands swing between them, “that we ended up here.”

“Oh,” Nishinoya says with a laugh. “You mean like fate.”

Chikara cheeks burn immediately. “I didn’t say that.”

“Okay,” Nishinoya drags out the word like he knows damn well that it’s what Chikara meant all the same. “What d’you think it is that keeps people together, then?”

Chikara frowns, lets out a slow breath. It’s not supposed to be late enough in the season for cold, but a chill of it hits his nose all the same.

“I dunno,” he says. “It’s just what happens, whenever people meet.”

He can feel Nishinoya’s gaze at the side of his head, so Chikara tips his head to the side to look at him. In the space between day and night, Nishinoya looks untouchable.

“Well, I think it’s fate,” Nishinoya says. “How else does anyone meet anyone, yanno?”

Chikara smiles faintly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what are the chances of this?” He gestures wildly with the hand not in Chikara’s; the gesture means nothing to Chikara, but the soft squeeze of his hand does.

“Maybe we’re just lucky,” Chikara proposes. And maybe luck is a form of fate, but Chikara thinks he’ll hold onto that thought for a little longer.

Nishinoya’s smile crinkles the edges of his eyes as the moonlight finally wins over the daylight. “Maybe we’re invincible.”

“I’m not saying we’re invincible,” Chikara says, practical as ever. He lets Nishinoya swing their arms wide as he continues, “but I’m not saying we’re not.”

Nishinoya stops, laughing. “When you say it like that, it’s the same thing, isn’t it?”

And maybe, Chikara muses, it is.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you for reading. Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated :)
> 
> On a more personal note, I'm incredibly happy that I finished this fic. It's been sitting in my gdocs in various iterations for well over a year, if not two, as I've stewed over how to best piece together this story. I can't tell yall how many different facets of these scenes I've written and discarded before finally having things click like this. I'm really happy with how this turned out!
> 
> anyways thanks for listening to my tedtalk, well wishes for 2018 yall!


End file.
